Part Five

1

but the border police& over-excited immigration officersin their new uniformsegged on by the gutter presshad meanwhile hatched the notionthat I was sneaking back & forthbetween commie France& regal Italyin order to foment revolutionit was time to move on& in spite of my high-tech hardware& green comfy softwarethe currents of life & art began todissolve the grains of hatred lodged between my teeth

2

I can't say when my daring plansoftened to old ideasbut I know that for a magic monthI wandered in & out of Nicethrough air full of its own musicI watched the sea from orange groves& vines of sunlit hills for days that grew inside me like leavesalone I wrote as naturallyas a shoal turns in the tide& I turned towards Rome

3

after enduring gang-show operadown through the peninsulaI arrived in Rome in timefor the feast of Corpus Christiwhat treats were now in storewhat heavenly aestheticsa circus trundling into townwould have breathed more spiritualitythan this confectionary warehousewrapped in whorehouse curtains –& the music a capella elephantsjostling to be first back up the Alpsechoed like brays & slaps off eachsoft cheek of the Virgin

4

in Rome we did what students domake a racket & wish they were in Paris(except the ones in Paris who yearn for New York)we stepped around the famous sitesten years since John Keats diedarranged excursions to the local winesplanned longer trips to Venice & MilanFlorence Naples PalermoRome & the Academy left me coldexcept for the shadows of the Colosseum& the resonances of St. Peter’sit struck a chord in me forever& I would step into serenityas I left the heat of the cityfor the cool beauty of elsewhereI’d unpack some Byronsquat in an accommodating confessional& read through spacious marble silencethe daft & burning passionsof our wine-dark wine-soaked heartsuntil the dying of the light

5

the best days in Italywere those spent walking away from myselfalong the lanes & tracksthat led from the cityacross the plains of Laziotowards the hill countrymoving up into Abruzzoin an old straw hat & my pottering shirtI’d grab a gun or guitar & follow my unmissable nosemy head & tongue were heavywith Virgil & key changethe ecology of orchestrationI stirred myself to tearssinging & composingin the footsteps of the bardI wept for Turnus & Lavinia& I sang glittering armourinto being in the corners of my eyesthose walks were the only perfect compositions of my lifethe significant tremor of reedgut & skin tuned to weather

6

I listen to bits of that tinny pimp Rossini with my knuckles tuned to my teeth

I would rather have rusty skewershammered into my hipsthan listen to one of his operas

Beethoven tends to come upthrough the bowels like a good suppository

I find I have to swallowwith consideration for timingwhen listening to Mozart

the better the workthe more of my body is in my ear

originality in art tends to be the juxtapositionof several incompatible anachronisms

7

each track & wood was overshadowed by the Apenninesa monastery bell from the next valleysomeone shouting behind a huta raucous bird coughing in a dead bushjust enough variety & dissonanceto help you recognise the planetthe music of the Abruzzi is played with enormous verve& self-confidence with each playerin tune irrespective of the others& playing with impeccable timingunlike one's colleaguesthe bagpipes will make you forgetyour future they just go in one ear& stay there

8

don't forget to get ripped offon a day trip from Naplesyou can go anywhereI went to Nisidathey emptied my wallettreated me to a dinner so bigI could have sat in it& lifted my feet from the floorthey felt guilty afterwards& scurried around with muchfurtive shouting before presenting me with a keepsakethe biggest onion in the worldno I have not

9

it's always worth popping into churches& other sitesof uneasy need& ambitionthe music of yearningof affiliationself-satisfactionor stomach-clenchinglonelinessyou can watchexpressions posturesreflections & arches& hear the lossechoing through our roomsthe bigger the buildingthe greater the emptinessunderlined by every art under the sun